


Missing

by infinium



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: In which Sleuth hasn't written since August, In which the detective dies of cancer two paragraphs in, Just a drabble, M/M, dont read, tjis is shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:31:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3299564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinium/pseuds/infinium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Slick doesn't know that Sleuth is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing

The bedroom was dark; only illuminated by the moon shining through the single open window located on the far wall of the room, but it was just barely enough for Sleuth to read. He clutches the letter he’s holding tightly, slightly shaking.  
Spades Slick was asleep next to him, chest rising and falling calmly, in a relaxed manner. Usually, Sleuth loved watching him sleep, but this night he was just too focused on rereading this letter he has gotten.  
Problem Sleuth only has two weeks to live.  
The very thought turned his stomach in sickening knots, bringing forth a true feeling of fear.  
Tears well up in his eyes, and he quickly wipes them on his sleeve.  
He sits up abruptly, folding the letter and setting it on the nightstand. He unwrapped Slick’s arms from around himself and crawled out of bed, careful not to disturb the other.

 

The knots in Sleuth’s stomach only get tighter. There’s not a way he can stay here, not a chance in hell.  
It would destroy Slick.  
Digging through the shared closet, Sleuth pulls out a bag, quickly packing various things. A few sets of clothing, a knife, some food, and a few other necessities. After everything he needs is packed, he paces around in circles a few times, muttering under his breath.  
Sleuth then stops, taking a deep breath, then slings the bag over his shoulder.  
Slowly walking, he goes back over to the bed, standing over Slick.

 

Slick was resting peacefully, even grinning a little in his sleep.  
A melancholy expression took over Sleuth’s face. How was he supposed to tell this guy, the one who loves only him, that cancer is going to kill him in only a matter of weeks?

 

He wasn’t.  
Bitter tears drip out of Sleuth’s eyes uncontrollably as he leans down and kisses his sleeping boyfriend.   
“I’m sorry,” He whispers before backing away, then throws on his overcoat and slings the bag over his shoulder.  
Rushing out of the room, Sleuth begins to feel sick to his stomach, feeling that what he is doing is horribly, horribly wrong.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It has been a week since Problem Sleuth disappeared without a word, and it was really starting to get on Slick’s nerves.  
Of course, this wasn’t the first time that Sleuth has run off without saying anything, or any particular reason. He’ll come back eventually, he always does. Sleuth probably needed some space, probably pissed at Slick for whatever reason.  
But for some reason, Slick couldn’t recall pissing off Sleuth in recent memory.

 

The mobster was walking down the boulevard of Midnight City, contemplating multiple things, especially Sleuth’s sudden disappearance.   
It was rather disconcerting. Usually, he’d give Slick a call by now, tell him that everything is alright and that he is safe, probably coming home soon.  
  


He shoves his hands in his pockets, pulling out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. Before he is able to do anything else, he slams into a taller man, knocking him over.  
It turned out to be Pickle Inspector.  
“Hey.” Slick says casually, only to get a jumble of apologies in return as the inspector frantically gathers papers that had gone flying everywhere.  
Looking up, the nervous man realizes who he had walked into, which only caused him to panic and stand up, raising his bowler.

Slick stares at him for a while.

 

“Uh. Hey. Have you seen Sleuth around lately?” He asks. “Fuckin’ asshole ran off without a word.”  
It was that moment that it seemed as if the detective’s collar tightened, and he was rendered unable to say a word, except for a small “um” and an apologetic look, before rushing around the gangster, obviously had places to be. Slick’s eyes followed him with question, but hedared not say a word.  
Obviously something was terribly wrong.

 

The feeling stuck with Slick for weeks, he couldn’t stand it; not a word about or from Sleuth, it’s been nearly two months since his disappearance. Slick often spent time staring at the phone and checking the mailbox; day after day, nothing received.  
This was very uncharacteristic of Sleuth, he’s a clingy fellow, and anybody who’s anybody could tell you that. The feeling was eating away at Slick, bringing for a dark feeling that maybe Sleuth is dead.   
With hopeful doubt, he ignores the feeling.  
That would just…  
Be crazy talk.

 

Sleuth was a healthy guy, as far as Slick was concerned. Easily likeable. Not many people would really want to kill him, either.  
Unless he got messed up in the bad part of the city.  
The Felt were usually the ones to point fingers at in that sort of deal.  
Enraged, Slick makes his way to the Felt mansion, confronting Crowbar just outside the gates.  
Without hesitation, Slick slams Crowbar into the gate, a knife to the leprechaun’s neck.  
“Where is Sleuth?!” Slick barks.  
“What-?! I-”  
Slick presses the blade closer, the tip just barely nicking Crowbar’s skin, who in turn, strains to swallow his breath.  
“I’ll ask again,” The carapace growls. “Where the fuck is Problem Sleuth.”

At this point, Crowbar just looks confused.  
“What…?”  
“I AIN’T FUCKIN’ AROUND!” Slick yelled, a slight echo filled the air before everything became unnervingly silent.  
Calmly, Crowbar took Slick’s knife away from him, and lowered his hands. The Felt member could feel the other shaking, although he was unsure of why at the moment.

  
“Sleuth’s been dead for over a month, Slick.”

That’s the last thing Slick remembers Crowbar saying. He doesn’t know how he ended up back in his apartment, and has even less of a clue how long he’s actually been there.  
But he’s dead, not Crowbar, although Slick’s sure he had given him a good beating.  
Sleuth had cancer, somehow Crowbar knew that before Spades did.

  
Guess that’s one less problem to sleuth. 


End file.
